I wish I could write as well as David Sedaris

His latest from the New Yorker is here:

The thing had been struck but not run over. It hadn’t decomposed, or been disfigured, and I was surprised by the shoddiness of its coat. It was as if you’d bred a rabbit with a mule. Then there was the tail, which reminded me of a lance.

“Hugh,” I called. “Come here and look at the wallaby.”

It’s his belief that in marvelling at a dead animal on the roadside you may as well have killed it yourself—not accidentally but on purpose, cackling, most likely, as you ran it down. Therefore, he stayed in the car.

“It’s your loss,” I called, and a great cloud of steam issued from my mouth.

As always with Sedaris (and the New Yorker), there is much, much more.